Hi there. I’m Mikey. I write things that make me laugh. Turns out they make others laugh too. These come in two levels:
Level ONE
TERRIBLE ADVICE
God, it’s fun writing this friggin’ nonsense. There is a Facebook group. A group where we give TERRIBLE advice. Users post Questions. Group rules insist that any and all advice-Answers must be as unhinged, insane, and TERRIBLE as possible.
You’re on, baby. I banged out dozens before it occurred to me to start collecting them, first on my author website, but more recently here on Substack. Here’s a sample:
On Dark Triad gigantic assholes, Habsburg jaws, sweet sweet world domination, and devouring clients' noxious juices: today's TERRIBLE advice
Ash asks: I am thinking of becoming a life coach/personal trainer, what terrible advice are you going to give me?
My answer: Man oh man. Seriously bro? A life coach AND a personal trainer? Are you nuts? This is what we in the Defence Against The Dickhead Arts field of science call “The Dark Triad’s Habsburg Jaw.” It's a BAD IDEA. What, you may ask, the hell am I blathering about? ...
Debauchery, drugs, jazz, communes, beatniks, lentils, oral sex, midnight frolics, witchcraft, sit-ins, marches, oral sex, foxtrots, covens, sandals, oral sex, incredibly free love, and oral sex: today's TERRIBLE advice
花栗栖 asks: I’m a man and I just bottomed for another man. What do now??
My answer: I feel you there, bro! Er. Figuratively. Don't ever beat yourself up about having incredibly mixed feelings concerning bottoms and bottoming. Bottoms are hilarious! But prickly. Especially one's own ...
Everything that's ever happened or ever will happen in the entire goddamn universe: today's TERRIBLE advice
Elizabeth asks: something happened to me recently that I can’t talk about to anybody because I don’t want to be judged or pitied. What do?
My answer: If you want to subtly hint at the core of whatever the dagnabbit it was that you went through, then simply let them logically deduce it: rattle off every single other event that's ever happened in the history of the entire goddamn universe ...
On scheming bitches, Antarctic science side quests, extra-gorgeous ponies, and the Zodiac Killer: today's TERRIBLE advice
Beckini On Twitch asks: Apparently, at our wedding 19 years ago, a "friend" told my husband to promise that WHEN our marriage went south, she'd be next. He told me TODAY. What do?
My answer: Oh, wow. He'd been dangling THAT over your head like a shitty husbandly Sword of Damocles, for nineteen friggin' years and only just now decided on telling you? Good god, girl. Sounds like he's savouring two things ...
These your thing? Fab! I think you’ll like it here. Do gobble them.
Then consider upgrading your tastes to:
Level TWO
THE SEXYVERSE NOVELS
No, seriously.
*ahem*
IN A WORLD where wars are fought with romance and flirting and delicious erotic TENSION, the rivalries throbbing between history's Great Powers have become a BUTTLOAD more bubbly, with fewer hideous massacres of musket and cannon, and OODLES more frisky cunnilingus contests.
I’ve banged out four so far. All form the series The Sex Commandos Thwart The Third Vaginal Apocalypse. Check ‘em out:
Part One: THE KNIGHTS OF RAW PHWOAR
The fourth French Empire threatens anew to blush the globe's cheeks and quiver its hips and kersplode its gonads. France's funky new Imperatrix Brigitte Bardot, some kind of retired actress apparently, has somehow sculpted France into a terrifying tornado of wanton femme-foam. Earth's free nations shall drown in sexy sexy darkness.
But Britain's answer to French raunch, the Royal Marines Sex Commandos, ain't taking that crap lying down. They're stealthing a sultry strike force into Paris disguised as a particularly frumpy French nun convent, the notorious KNIGHTS OF RAW PHWOAR.
Hundreds of gorgeous, superb, mega-ch0nk Brit raiders thus launch a fab nocturnal flirtfest against Bardot’s Parisian pad, the Élysée Palace. They trounce the thousands-strong garrison with hours of rad genital jousting, then take on the Imperatrix herself.
But turns out her seismo-flirts are truly apocalyptic. Turns out she can out-raunch the lot. And things start going horribly wrong …
Part Two: THE SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB
Disaster! Two hundred superb Royal Marines Sex Commandos with superb-er patoots have carved a gorgeous highway through France and into Imperatrix Bardot’s luscious boudoir, to dissuade her from submerging Earth under a THIRD Vaginal Apocalypse.
But out-flirting the Imperatrix is like handjobbing Mt. Blanc (a cornerstone of Sex Commando training, but ever wanked off a mountain when it’s wanking you back? Want to? Read on, young padawan).
One escapee: a rad Mississippi hotshot/lunkhead named Charlie. Now what? Rescue chums alone? Impossible! But his priceless Froggy intel might just swing this third Vaginal Apocalypse Britain’s way.
Only one route Home. Penetrate France’s imminent Brit invasion and its million-maiden cannon fodder first wave: the notorious SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB. Blend in, head down, yap shut, avoid heat.
Charlie instead falls in love and/or bar-room brawls with every French Army hotshot in his path. His new Froggy pals proclaim him the Seminal Sorceror, Louisiana’s fightin’ finest.
Army prodigies thirst to marry and/or enslave him. With each fresh celeb challenger, Charlie’s hopes of vanishing into the Soviet Sluts Superb and Home wilt by the second.
Plan B, then? Harness his newfound fame into actually leading the Invasion? Amass enough celeb clout to charge Britainward before Paris’s pursuing police close in for the kill?
What’s the worst that could happen?
Part Three: THE CERVICAL SUPREMACY
Ever gloried in flirting so magnificent it whisks your mind, heart, soul, and nethers into gooey bliss-puddles?
Ever craved pilgrimage to an entire Empire designed around little else? Yeah?
Be careful what you wish for!
The French Empire’s groovy new seismoflirt hierarchy is resculpting civilisation. Radiant rookie tongue-twirlers slurp asunder their neighbours’ ‘nads, who in turn become sublimed into aural oblivion by oral athletes yet mightier, up and up to lustrous Imperial infinity.
A sweat-slick tornado of rad Imperial oomph throbs across Europe. France consumes all. France devours all. You? You’re nothing. A billion bombastic Frogs will hump you woozy and discard the husk.
It’s Sex Commando heaven.
Yet Charlie gr0ks he’s moonwalking across France far too friskily. Attention accretes. Heat throbs. Beautiful gangs of beautiful gangsters spurt penisly from every alley. Flirting with every ladybro Rambo in sight produces Rivals and Frenemies and Jilted Waifus galore.
The dazzling Alsatian wonder-grrl Yasmine “Sweetling” Gautreaux trounces the lot. She and Charlie have already spent SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB becoming entirely too chummy.
For if Yasmine might somehow dissolve and subsume this gorgeous foreign volcano, then no Prussian fortress could ever withstand her, no rival she could not break asunder.
Break even her revered Imperatrix? Can’t a gal dream? Yasmine thus surely tightens her webs against Charlie, mapping, caressing, cloaking her smiling jaws of silken goddamn steel.
Fate worsens further. Charlie’s captured Sex Commando mates are paraded around France. Their captors invite him to torture them for intel but mainly for the lolz.
And Paris’s police have FOUND HIM.
Torment within and without! How much hurt can this tank take, man?
Part Four: THE PRAETORIAN PROSTITUTES
The story so far: France’s new Imperatrix Brigitte Bardot yearns to drown the world in delicious French darkness. The Royal Marines Sex Commandos stealthed into Paris to kick her ass. Our correspondent alone scampered from her trap.
But turns out the lone route Home is within France’s own invasion. Yeah. Join the French Army. But! They’re radiant! They’re frisky! Charlie’s adored spending SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB and CERVICAL SUPREMACY strutting his funky stuff as the exotic Louisiana hotshot the Seminal Sorcerer. He knows it’s bullshit, but god DAMN bullshitting is fun.
Half of France adores this gorgeous foreign volcano. Local flirt-champs queue to duel him. Marshals invite him to torture captured Sex Commandos. And the meteoric Alsatian prodigy “Sweetling” Yasmine attempts to seduce, duel, marry, enslave, fingerblast, and spoon him, all at once.
Oh sure, subsuming the Sorceror shall skyrocket Yasmine to Imperial Greatness. But god DAMN he’s dreamy. He makes her feel ever so gooey and pliant. He melts her without trying or even knowing. She dreads it and she craves it. Yasmine MUST annihilate this dazzling rival before she just can’t.
And worse. Paris’s furious cops are HUNTING Charlie.
He reckons it’s time for Plan B. B for Bullshit. Why not squander his collapsing celeb glamour on HIS terms?
A thrilling bullshit rampage back against Paris, perhaps? Bullshit free the entire captured Sex Commando strike force? Bullshit free every other political prisoner and captured mercenary in France?
And it’ll only mean shattering the trust and breaking the hearts of his paramil paramours.
More are on the way ❤️ Stay tuned, baby.
Meantime, do peruse my TERRIBLE advice and/or SEXYVERSE novels, and if this nonsense tickles your fancy, by all means Heart it, Restack it, Comment, Follow, Subscribe, Massage, Flirt, or cultivate Substack’s algo-juice in whatever other way you see fit. Thank you spectacularly for reading my friggin’ nonsense, and do have a lovely day. You’re a bit of all right, you know that?
